Movement
by Yorik
Summary: I used to watch him from the corner of my eye. He was like poetry, and he always smelt like fresh cigrettes. SxS AU
1. Chapter 1

**Movement**

Summary: I used to watch him from the corner of my eye. He was like poetry, and he always smelt like fresh cigrettes. SxS AU

Chapter One

**

**

He sat in the last row, at the seat closest to the window. I used to watch him from the corner of my eye. Tomoyo told me to keep my distance - he was notorious, she said.

"For what?" I asked.

"For being notorious."

He used to turn up precisely three minutes before the lecture began, and he always smelt like fresh cigarettes.

"Apparently that's not all he smokes."

"What do you mean?"

He was an art major. They'd already had several exhibitions of his work around the university - I suppose it was too expensive and he couldn't afford to display it elsewhere. My favourite was the one of the dancer, because you could practically see the subject moving before your eyes. His work was all like that - never sedentary or bland, it was always moving - from each stroke of his paintbrush to each smear of charcoal. Everything about his art flowed like water in a stream.

Everything about his art was alive.

He wore red flip-flops to lectures no matter what the weather was like. This was against the university's dress code, but he didn't seem to care. And for some strange reason, that tiny act of rebellion thrilled me.

Red rebellion.

Everything about him said: _I am dangerous._

And for that reason, I wanted him.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Movement**

Summary: I used to watch him from the corner of my eye. He was like poetry, and he always smelt like fresh cigrettes. SxS AU

Chapter Two

**

**

No one knew anything concrete about him - only wispy rumors, drifting through the student body like smoke. There were so many - that he was part of the Yakuza, that he was a drug-pusher, that he sold his soul to the devil just because he was bored.

Stupid rumors.

Thrilling rumors.

I watched him from the corner of my eye that afternoon. The sky was overcast and monochrome, the sunlight was silver-gray. The wind rushed past the trees and their canopies were tousled. He was not paying any attention to our lecture - something about poetry - but instead seemed captivated by the phenomenon beyond the window. He was so beautiful, I thought that _he_ was like a living poem. I suddenly felt inspired. I wanted that stupid class to end so I could get to my piano, before I forgot-

"Kinomoto!"

I snapped out of my reverie to find my professor looking decidedly displeased. Everyone in the hall was staring at me.

"Sorry," I said sheepishly.

The lesson continued.

When I chanced a glance at him again, I swear he was grinning.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Movement**

Summary: I used to watch him from the corner of my eye. He was like poetry, and he always smelt like fresh cigrettes. SxS AU

Chapter Three

**

**

It was a Thursday, and Tomoyo and I were walking to Irwin's, which was a nearby café. The sky was dull and carried heavy clouds, full of the promise of a storm.

"Rain and cold always make hot chocolate taste better!" I said.

Tomoyo nodded. "Yes," she smiled.

It was considerably warmer inside - and cozier. The lighting was amber and not too strong - perfect for unwinding. I didn't notice him until we were preparing to sit down, and was surprised. I'd never seen him out of class before. He was hidden in a corner behind a bookshelf, and I could only see his face through gaps where books should have been.

"Aah," said Tomoyo," thank God it's Thursday!"

"I'd rather it were Friday night already. Do you know I haven't had a proper night's sleep in a week?!"

"If you'd only practice more-"

"What time do I have to practice when I'm being loaded with so much theory!? And that stupid music history class! Argh! I know Otousan is a big history buff, but I know for sure that I have not inherited that gene!"

"It's not _that_ bad…"

I wanted him because he was dangerous. I wanted him because he was a mystery that needed solving. I wanted him because he was red rebellion personified. His face was grim and set and he looked displeased. I wondered what it would be like for me to kiss that hard mouth, to caress that strong jaw, to dominate and overpower and-

"-But at least it's almost Christmas!" said Tomoyo, oblivious to my filthy, filthy musings.

"Eh? Oh. Yes, you're right!"

Tomoyo smiled contentedly. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. I fought against the urge to turn and stare.

"Ne, Tomoyo, I'm going to get a book."

"Great idea. I have to finish writing some lyrics anyway."

When I stood up, the legs of the chair scraped against the floor. My heart was beating so loudly, I wondered if anyone else could hear it. I pretended to scan the shelves for an appropriate piece of literature, and used the opportunity to watch him. He had a sketchpad on the table before him, and it was covered in doodles and nonsensical notes. He sighed again, and his frown grew deeper. I wondered what he was thinking.

And then he looked up, straight at me.

I involuntarily took a step backwards from surprise. I felt my stomach plunge, and my face heat up. _Shit_.

I grabbed the first book my fingers touched and made a speedy getaway, feeling like a real idiot. I looked down at the tome in my hands and cringed. Twilight. _Oh man…_

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Movement**

Summary: I used to watch him from the corner of my eye. He was like poetry, and he always smelt like fresh cigrettes. SxS AU

Chapter Four

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**

* * *

I hadn't actually expected to find him. I'd just walked into the art building on a whim, telling myself that all I really wanted to do was to look at all the new exhibitions up. And then I'd walked into one of the studios and found him there, paintbrush poised to strike canvas like a cobra, and spoken.

"Hello."

He hadn't yet said a word, but was instead appraising me curiously. His eyes were serious and thoughtful and after a moment he smirked and put his paintbrush down.

"You're the one who's been staring at me."

I blushed.

"What of it?" I countered.

"Nothing. Only it's obvious."

"Ah," I said, feeling my face flush. There was silence for a moment. "Do you mind if I watched you paint?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "I _do_ mind."

I ignored him and sat down. I picked up a pen from the table and began to doodle on my hand. He looked very unhappy. _Dammit_.

"Seriously," he frowned. "Get out. I can't work if you're here distracting me."

"So I distract you, eh?" I said, with more bravery than I felt, raising an eyebrow, glancing at him. My tattoo had begun to sprawl from the back of my hand along the length of my forearm. It was late in the morning and the sun was harsh and white. He rose to his feet and his eyes were dangerous and I felt that _thrill _again and all I could think of were his red flip-flops and rebellion and whether he found me attractive at all.

Then he stopped. And he stared.

The bright light was beginning to give me a headache. Maybe I should have taken a hint and just left?

"You," he said.

"What?" I asked, with more grumpiness than I'd intended.

He covered the unfinished painting with a cloth and then turned to face me. His eyes were like tigers' eyes and they were burning.

"Come with me."


	5. Chapter 5

**Movement**

Summary: I used to watch him from the corner of my eye. He was like poetry, and he always smelt like fresh cigrettes. SxS AU

Chapter Five

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**

* * *

We were standing in his apartment and there was a person on the sofa completely engrossed in Gears of War2.

"Yamazaki."

His friend didn't bother looking away from his x-box game.

"What?"

"I'm borrowing your camera."

"If you break it I'll kill you."

"Liar," grinned my mysterious artist. "Thanks."

Then he led me away from their apartment and back to the studio. He drew the curtains and switched on all the lights.

"What's going on?" I asked.

He was in the process of squeezing some blue paint onto his palette.

"You're going to help me with my examination piece," he said.

"Oh, am I?"

"Yes."

"Well, I don't recall you asking me."

"I didn't."

That thrill again.

"So what am I to do?"

"Strip."

I did a double-take. "Excuse me?"

He looked up from his palette, brows creased in irritation. "Strip, I said. Are you deaf?"

"Do you really think I'd get naked in front of a complete stranger?"

"Yes. Now do it or I'll find someone else."

How was I to argue with his logic? I began to unbutton my shirt. What was he going to do? Was this his way of seducing me? It sure as hell was the crappiest seduction I'd ever experienced.

"Just lose the top half," he said.

Soon I was standing there in my bra.

"Lose it," he commanded.

"_What?!"_

"Dammit, woman, just do as I say!"

"Damn _you!_ I don't even know you!"

"If you're going to waste my time, then get out!" he shouted. "There are plenty of others who'd be willing to help!"

"You never even asked, you jackass! Who do you think you are, telling a girl you just met to strip and expecting her to do it too!?"

"Fine," he snapped. "Will you help me?"

"Magic word?"

"_Look here," _he began dangerously.

"Okay, okay. Get on with it."

"If madam would be so obliged to remove her brassiere?"

I obliged him. I don't think I'd ever felt so self-conscious in all my life. He made me lie down on the long table, and, having mounted the same furniture himself, began mixing more colours on his palette. He had an extra paintbrush in his mouth that he seemed to have forgotten about, and his hair was in a state of disarray.

"Now hold still," he instructed, and almost immediately afterwards I felt the cool paint against my skin. I gasped and shivered a little despite myself. But he didn't pay any attention to me - he was completely absorbed in whatever the heck it was he was painting. He was slathering it all across my right breast and collarbone and I knew that the combined efforts of the cool paint, his gentle touch and intense gaze were making my nipples embarrassingly erect. I could have died right there on the spot. But thankfully, as I mentioned earlier, he seemed oblivious to everything except his art. I could have been a potato for all the sex appeal I seemed to have. After about fifteen minutes of work, I broke the heavy silence between us.

"My name is Sakura," I said.

"That's a nice name," he said distractedly.

More silence. "This is about where you tell me _your_ name," I suggested.

"Mmmnn…" he said, frowning over me. He reached for a thinner brush and dipped it into the bright orange dollop on his palette.

When he didn't say anything more, I ploughed on in an attempt to fill the soundless void between us.

"My mother gave us all flower-related names, you see. Well, actually, she only named my brother and I. 'Tousan already had his name…and she did too…her name was Nadeshiko[1]. I suppose she thought it would be cute for us to follow a general botanic theme. Oniichan is Touya[2], and Otousan is Fujitaka[3]."

"Ah, flowers!" muttered my mysterious artist.

"Yeah, she was into all that big-happy-family stuff. Which was great, considering. I mean, my name is pretty much the only thing I have that connects me to her. Oh, and my eyes. 'Tousan always says that I inherited her eyes."

At that he looked at me, straight into my eyes, as if to confirm this. His eyebrows rose a little, as if he'd just noticed them. I realized he wasn't painting anymore.

"They're green," he said.

"Yes. An astute observation, Holmes."

"They're pretty."

I blushed and couldn't help but feel a little pleased. "Thank you."

More silence. He'd started to paint again.

"So, what happened to your mother?"

"She died."

"I see."

"It was when I was really young, though, so I barely remember anything."

"Not remembering is sad," he said suddenly, and I was surprised by the profound nature of this comment.

"I suppose it is," I mused. "But what about you?"

"My mother is still alive and I remember her very well."

I smiled. And then I closed my eyes and dozed. The movement of his paintbrush across my skin made me lethargic and comatose. I was barely aware of anything. I no longer even felt self-conscious. Eventually, I fell asleep.

* * *

When I woke up he was standing over me on top of the table, his face pressed into the camera's viewfinder. I was more than a little startled.

"What are you-?" I began, but he stamped his foot (narrowly missing the skin of my midsection) and I froze.

"Don't. Fucking. Move."

He took a picture. The flash went off. He appraised it in the camera's digital display. He positioned himself again. I didn't dare breathe.

"Look at me," he commanded. And I did. He took another picture. "_Beautiful,_" he said throatily, in a way that made me think of orgasms, and I wasn't quite sure if he was talking about me or his handiwork, but I blushed anyway. He took a few more photographs and then made me sit by the window, with a crack open between the curtains. It was late afternoon and the sunlight was a harsh, silver-grey.

"Look at me," he demanded once more, and I did. When he moved the camera away from his face he was smiling and he was so handsome it took my breath away and then when he looked up his eyes were like a tigers and burning and burning and all I could think of was how I wanted him to touch me like _he_ wanted _me._ He took another photograph and paused to momentarily check it.

Then he smiled again, and I felt beautiful.

* * *

**Notes**

[1] Nadeshiko - Refers to the flower **Dianthus superbus****, Large Pink**.

[2] Touya - Refers to the Peach Blossom.

[3] Fujitaka - Refers to Ivy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Movement**

Summary: I used to watch him from the corner of my eye. He was like poetry, and he always smelt like fresh cigrettes. SxS AU

Chapter Six

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**

When I finally reached home a couple of hours later I locked myself in my bedroom, got naked and stared at myself in the mirror.

He'd painted swirling tendrils of…_something_ all along my forehead, temple, neck, jaw line and collarbone, dipping down in a 'V' between the crevice of my breasts. The designs curled around my eyes and were even on my eyelids. It was so beautiful. I could almost swear they were moving. I didn't understand it.

_Some sort of optical illusion…?_

I stood there for close to twenty minutes staring at myself and marveling at his work. How did he know to make such designs? When I was satisfied, I stepped into the shower.

Washing the paint off was close to impossible. Like I said, he'd even painted my face, so my bus ride home guaranteed and faithfully delivered lots of strange stares. _Who is that odd, blue-faced girl?_ they asked themselves. I felt a bit like Violet from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

I scrubbed frantically at myself, and watched as the water swirling around the floor of my shower cubicle first turned blue and then a horrible, murky brown when all the colours melded together. And while this was happening I wondered. I wondered how this fragile, tentative relationship had sprung up between us, and how long it was going to last, and if it were going to ever become more concrete, more founded. I wondered if he thought I was attractive - attractive enough to sleep with - or if he were completely immune to me. Don't get me wrong - I'm no beauty. I don't have baby blue eyes or porcelain skin or teeth that gleam like pearls - but let's just say that I had my fair share of admirers back in high school.

I wanted to get the paint off me before Tomoyo got home. I don't know why I wanted this - I felt like I was washing away the evidence from the scene of my crime (_out, damned spot! [1]_)like a murderer washing the blood off his hands. I didn't understand why I'd subconsciously, and then later, consciously, decided to hide my relationship with my mysterious artist from Tomoyo. Perhaps I was scared of her disapproval? Also, I didn't fancy having to explain to her that almost the entirety of the while I spent with him I was half-naked. That would have led to many, many admonitions. It would have been far too complicated.

Also, I didn't want to give her the power to say 'I told you so' in the event that something went wrong.

And then I realized that I still didn't know his name.

When Tomoyo got home we made dinner together (sausages and mashed potatoes) and watched Breakfast at Tiffany's and gossiped until two in the morning. I tried with all my might not to think of him. Then I practiced my examination piece (Schubert's Piano Sonata in D) and finally fell asleep at five.

After much deliberation I went back to the studio the next day, but he was nowhere to be found.

* * *

**Notes**

[1] "Out, damned spot!" - Lady Macbeth, _Macbeth_, by Shakespeare.

A/N: Oh, wow. Thanks for all your positive feedback, everyone! Chapter seven is in the making even as I post this! The good thing about short chapters is that it inspires me to write faster and therefore in turn, update faster.


	7. Chapter 7

**Movement**

Summary: I used to watch him from the corner of my eye. He was like poetry, and he always smelt like fresh cigrettes. SxS AU

Chapter Seven

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**

I didn't see him until lectures the week after. Though this time, I didn't stare. I didn't even sit near him. I chose instead to move all the way to the other end of the hall.

"What's going on?" asked Tomoyo.

"Nothing," I lied, "I just thought that a change would be nice!"

She looked at me funny before sinking into her seat. The lecture commenced. _I will not stare I will not stare I will not stare!!_ - is what I willed myself, but before those three glorious hours were up I'd tried to ogle him no less than eight times.

"Are you alright?" whispered Tomoyo concernedly.

I nodded and smiled not a little sheepishly.

_Perseverence!_ I told myself. And then I wondered why my conscience sounded like Mickey Rooney. The minutes wore on like they were running a marathon through a river of treacle. I bowed my head in frustration. I wanted to get out of there. But I couldn't. Because apparently this history class was necessary to appreciate art and music in it's proper context.

Eventually though, and many hundreds of groans later, it did end. And then I was depressed because my artist was obviously going to ignore me and simply walk by out through those doors, never to be seen again-

"Hey."

He was standing by my desk, his charcoal-gray backpack slung over his shoulder. I couldn't look away.

"Hi," I squeaked.

"Saturday morning, same place." he said. "Come around eight."

"O-okay," I stuttered, because he was so _intense_ in that moment, so beautifully _intimidating_, that I wanted to do nothing more than just stare and stare and stare.

But of course he walked away. And of course, Tomoyo was waiting, arms crossed and eyebrow raised, for an explanation.

I felt elated but wasn't exactly sure why.


End file.
